


spoils of war

by cobrie



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Statement Fic, Stucky if you squint, Violence, War, a. he cant stop it, and b. it would hurt steve to try", i had this idea while watching winter soldier with a friend, it's more of a "bucky will turn a blind eye to stuff if he knows that, not that i'm any good at this but take care everyone, plus jon is there reading the statement i guess, reaaaly hard, there's a bunch of gory descriptions there, transcript format I guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:35:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23773951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobrie/pseuds/cobrie
Summary: Statement of James Buchanan Barnes, regarding his encounter with a book during his imprisonment under the HYDRA faculties. Statement given January 20th, 2015. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	spoils of war

**Author's Note:**

> i've been rereading this over and over agonizing over every single bad thing and. i just decided that honestly don't care if it's bad. let it be bad. i'll embrace the bad writing if it lessens my anxiety so have this

[CLICK]

  
**ARCHIVIST**

  
Case #0152001. Statement of James Buchanan Barnes, regarding his encounter with a book during his imprisonment under the HYDRA faculties. Statement given January 20th, 2015. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.  
Statement begins.

**ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)**

  
I don’t know why I’m here. Out of guilt, maybe. Monty told us about this place, back in the war. In one of the quiet nights, he said we could leave stories here. The kind that people don’t talk about. He’d dropped by, a few years back. Something about his mom, I think. Point is, he seemed relieved he did end up doing it. Told us it was worth it, if it ever came to it. Talking about it helps, I suppose.

It’s what Steve says. I would talk to him about it, but I have a feeling he’d just look at me with that resigned look in his eyes – acceptance, like this is just one more delusion they stuffed in my head he can’t deprogram, somehow.

I wish it was. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to sleep knowing that, thing is out there.

I should get to it already. It wasn’t like they ever held back. With the torture, I mean. If violence is an awful thing, the promise of it manages to be worse. The pain was excruciating, but it was the waiting that gnawed at me, consuming my every waking thought with pungent, agonizing dread. No real sense of routine, either.

The turnover rate within the HYDRA labs was too high for anyone in my condition to keep track of and the tests erratic. If that was their constant change in schedule or just my mind playing tricks on me, I’m not sure of. The only constants were the pain and the anticipation.

It’s strange, considering how abstract that whole period is in my head, that I remember it clearly.

It’s one of the things that solidify my belief it actually happened. Near the end of it, right before memories turn into flashes which fade into that dull, empty nothing.

My arm had been gone for a while, but I was still clinging to the last scraps of self I still had. The frustration in their midst was palpable, and they had begun resorting to more alternative methods.

Other than this, I don’t think any of the other experiences solidified themselves in my mind save for a lingering sense of oddness, but I’m sure I’m not missing out.

Their struggle was clear, even to me. Then again, I didn’t exactly have the presence of mind to be smug, so not much’s changed here.

  
A scientist barged into the room. They’re a blurred shape in my memory, too unremarkable for my eyes to do anything but glaze over; but I’ll never forget the book they placed on the floor. It wasn’t too thick – the compact bunch of yellowed pages was handbound in a style I didn’t recognize, but it looked messy. Frantic, somehow. Every nook and cranny of the, beaten, flaking leather cover is etched into the back of my eyes. There wasn’t a title anywhere, as far as I could see.

A man in a suit barked some orders and gazed expectantly at me. Apparently, _they wanted me to read it._

Little by little, the absurdity of the situation I was in started to dawn on me and baffled what stream of conscious thought I had left. Who would’ve thought – the Nazis wanted to torture me by making me do my reading. Life is already so goddamn weird, this might as well happen. For a moment, I thought I was going to start laughing.

A well-placed kick to the guts snapped me out of any daydreams though, and I was faced with a weirdly simple task. It was hard for me to think of any way me reading an old book could hurt anyone at that moment, so I complied. Reached for the book while my body told me to run, yes, but what didn’t elicit that reaction from me at that point.

  
The first few pages were blank – no stamp, sign or name that could help me pinpoint the purpose of it. I don’t know what I was expecting. Then, I saw text. Pages filled with it to the brim with no semblance of structure.

The handwriting was messy, but I could read it just fine. It’s what made it click.

The book was one of Steve’s journals. The ink looked weirdly fresh, but his chicken scratch was unmistakable. The text was, well it was weird. A gory opening about soldiers and the merits of war. Probably from the time he experimented with poetry. Pointless prose, if you ask me. Too stuck in the horror of it to actually say anything meaningful. But it was Steve’s, and I thought it’d be the last I’d ever see of him. So, I counted my blessings and moved on.

  
It wasn’t the worst of it, anyways. A little creepy, but bearable.

Only a few pages of nonsense until he apparently gave up on writing and started with the pictures. turned the page, and there it was – Steve’s eyes staring back at me.

Not only Steve, I could see others from the Howling Commandos there, but his face was the closest.

Steve usually didn’t include himself in his drawings, but I could tell immediately that it was one of his. He was quite the artist, you see. When morale was low, we’d gather whatever scrap of paper we had left and Dum Dum would tell him to “get rid of it already” with a heavy pat on the back for good measure. For some reason, he’d always look surprised when we kept some for him. It made him get teary-eyed every time. A huge sap, that’s what he is.

The charcoal made his face look foreign. Stern, somehow. It made his eyes look wrong. In the background, Gabe was laughing, full dimpled smile. Jim was in the middle of shaking his head, an easy grin softening whatever lecture he had coming up. Dum Dum was napping on the floor, arm slung over his features. Leaning on the corner was me, back to the viewer, looking up – Steve got anxious if he knew people were watching him, so I tried to give him some privacy when he was doing his thing.

From there on, it seemed to be all variations of the same picture, like a flip book. When we were home, Steve gave one to my sister as a birthday gift. Wasted all his money on supplies but managed to get it done just in time. It was silly and didn’t have much paper, but she loved it all the same.

My throat tightened at the memory. Maybe whatever their plan was working, after all. A man in a crisp white suit told me to hurry up and flip the pages. I don’t know when he got there. I started flipping them.

Naturally, the scene began to move. Gabe doubled over, shaking with laughter. Jim looked away, fully smiling this time. Dum Dum flipped them off, and the laughing started all over again. Steve remained impassive, and I didn’t move.

Abruptly, they stopped. Looked up. Something happened. It was like watching it live, streaks of charcoal coloring their faces with raw terror. Steve didn’t budge. His eyes remained clear. He opened his mouth.

That’s when it hit. That awful sound. Bagpipes, in the distance. Louder with every passing second. I moved. Shot Gabe right between his eyes. I could hear Jim screaming. Steve didn’t look back. A constant stream of blood tainted the floor. The me in the picture lifted his arm – a glint of metal – and crushed Jim’s face. Bone and sinew pressed inwards. Half of his face was gone. The paper should’ve run out already. It wasn’t that thick. Dum Dum pleaded for his life. The pipes got louder. Steve’s mouth was fully open in a silent scream. Blood – vibrant red – gushed out of his mouth. Dum Dum died with his heart still beating, plucked right out of his chest. His murderer began to turn around. I think that’s when I started screaming.

I... _know_ I said my memories from this were crystal clear, but it gets fairly incomprehensible from this point onwards. In the end, I was the last person alive in that room, and it wasn’t by much. One of the scientist's head was blown to bits. I could see a jaw hanging from a doorknob, skin stretching in odd shapes.

On the centre of it all, sat the man in a white suit - whch no longer had a speck of white - propped against a wall, motionless. His teeth were gone, but I could tell he was smiling through the blood. His hands, locked in place with barbed wire, clutched viciously at a swollen, puckered heart. It was beating hard, _too hard_ , sinking the mangeld flesh of the fingers around it deeper into the wire. Like a bird, pushing its way out of its cage, trying to sing its terrible song to the world.

I don’t know who took it from me, and I don’t know what happened to it.

I did try to talk about it with him, one day. Brought up his journals. Asked what he drew about, those days. He smiled at me and said it wasn’t anything special and asked me if I was alright. I didn’t press. Whatever happened when he filled that book, he doesn’t remember any of it.

I can’t blame him. Some memories are better left alone. I’m not wrong, though. It was his, I’m sure of it.

 _Look, Steve’s life isn’t easy._ It's never been. He didn’t have a choice for most of it. Neither did I, I guess. But if there’s one choice I’ll make in my lifetime, let it be this: He’s dealt with so much, the least I can do is let him out of it.

  
That wasn’t what pushed me over the edge, in the end. It was the words. We all know it was. I don’t like to think about what would have happened if I had read that journal cover to cover, though. Not when it already damaged me permanently.

Life is good, now. I have Steve back, and his gang of misfits have been warming up to me.

And yet. No matter how better it all gets, I can still hear the music in my dreams. It’s always there, blaring in the background while this twisted version of me murders all my friends in different ways. Occasionally, they’ll hurt each other too, but the ending’s all the same – a mangled pile of bodies, the Winter Soldier, turning around and Steve. It’s getting closer. I know I can’t stop it. I have no idea of what will happen once it does get here, but it’ll be bad.

  
One day, the pipes will reach me. For now, all I can do is brace myself for the impact and hope that when it hits, I won’t be there to know what happens next.

**ARCHIVIST**

Statement ends.

Mr. Barnes has not responded any attempts at communication from the institute since his statement but according to the press he seems to be, well, alive. Had I read this a bit earlier, I'd have brushed it off as a _complex hallucination_ or a side effect of PTSD, but the description of that journal leaves little room for speculation. 

In any case, he is not what interests me in this statement. It makes sense The Slaughter would take an interest in a literal symbol of war, but what surprises me is how little of its influence seems to bleed in his personality.

Definitively not a common trait among avatars.

Well, It _is_ possible that he’s not a full-fledged avatar, but from the state of that book, I doubt it.

Then again, it happened in America, so that makes it… _not_ my problem to deal with.

**ARCHIVIST (CONT'D)**

[THE ARCHIVIST SIGHS, LONG AND DRAWN OUT.]

Doesn’t the institute have a sister organization over there? Why do these people _keep coming here?_

Forget about this. I have too much work to do.

End recording.

[CLICK]

**Author's Note:**

> hope you guys liked it! the idea for this came after I rewatched the cw movies with a friend who's very fond of them. The american government created a symbol of war and expected him to what? Not become an avatar of the slaughter??? Unrealistic. Yeah the idea behind this is steve repressed his ideas on war so hard his journal turned into a leitner whoops did an oopsie right there


End file.
